


By The Throat

by sovery



Series: Twist and Twine [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1992, Alternate Universe, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Minor James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, People Doing Business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-01-21 12:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12458013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sovery/pseuds/sovery
Summary: An attempted hostile takeover of Hogwarts Inc by VMRT throws Harriet Potter's summer internship into chaos.





	1. A warning shot

**Author's Note:**

> Having a Real Job has been a bit of a drag, so I'm mostly focusing on fun and slightly absurd AUs rn. I'll get back to Iolanthe eventually. I think.

When Harriet had accepted a position interning at Hogwarts for the summer, she had expected to do a bit of work, probably engage in some sort of synergistic cross-department project organized by some keen young junior manager and on the whole, just hoped have something to show for her six weeks there when she could have been going to Spain with her friends from school.

She had not anticipated just how eccentric Dr. Dumbledore – the company’s founder and president – would be, nor how tiring working 9 to 5 could be, nor how much she would miss seeing her friends, and her parents, who had remained at their family home in Gloucestershire. And she certainly had not anticipated meeting Tom Riddle.

***

Her first inkling that something odd was afoot came the second week in July, when McGonagall called her into her office looking rather grave. Dr. Dumbledore’s secretary has been fired, she was told. Harriet would be assuming her position as they searched for a new one. Oh, and a company called VMRT was attempting to stage a hostile takeover of Hogwarts. Did she have any questions?

Harriet had far too many questions.

She was shown a series of black and white photos from news-clippings (one of them she recognized as Draco Malfoy’s father) and then asked if she wouldn’t mind filling in for Charity Burbage, Dumbledore’s assistant. Where, exactly, Charity had gone was left unanswered.

Harriet didn’t want to, but McGonagall managed to convince her. Something about her expression, about her manner of speaking, imparted the seriousness with which she was evidently taking this.

Later that night Harriet spent the duration of her phone call with her friend Hermione longing to ask her what she knew about this sort of thing (Harriet has been avoiding banking for a reason) and fished out the Business section of the Guardian from her bin. She skimmed the headlines and found no mention of VMRT. Hermione could only tell her that VMRT was some sort of secretive private equity firm who had a lot of cash to spend, and a knack for avoiding trouble with the regulators.

The next morning, on the tube, she recognized a face on the front of the Financial Times, down in the bottom left corner. It was a handsome face, and it was smiling.

**Tom Riddle’s Meteoric Rise,** it read. Harriet was not entirely successful dismissing it as pure coincidence.

***

She met him for the first time the following Tuesday, startled to see him walking out of the elevator accompanied by an anxious looking man she recognized from the main reception area of the building. Tom Riddle gave her a cursory look, seeming to size her up within seconds.

“I’m going to need to speak with Dumbledore,” he said, one hand in the pocket of a tailored suit. _Rude_ , she thought.

“I’m afraid Dr. Dumbledore is scheduled in meetings all morning – do you have an appointment with him?” she asked, running a finger up the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t, though I have no doubt he’s expecting me,” Tom Riddle said, looking down at her with a faintly condescending expression.

“Well, why don’t you take a seat, then. He doesn’t really take unscheduled appointments, but I’ll check,” she said, sincere as a snake.

“Hmm, you do that,” he said, not even looking at her as he checked his wristwatch.

It was a pleasure to turn away from him so she could let her expression match her emotions. She grabbed Luna Lovegood, another one of the interns, and told her to mind the desk and not to let Mr. Riddle go anywhere. Luna was … odd. Very kind, but very strange. Harriet hoped she wouldn’t say too much to Riddle – or which one of the two might be made more uncomfortable by the other.

As soon as she was out of sight she dashed to Minerva’s office, and she waited anxiously as the other woman grew steadily paler after hearing whatever it was the person on the other line was saying. She hung up the phone and met Harriet’s green eyes with her own grey ones. Harriet was only half-conscious of the improvement in her posture under that gaze.

“Harriet, I’m going to need to you delay him. Can you do that?”

A half beat.

“Yes,” she said, not quite sure what she was agreeing to. Rounding the corner to the lobby, she saw that Luna was watching Riddle looking unperturbed, and that Riddle had tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there before. Unless it had been, and she was just misremembering.

“Thanks Luna,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

“Not at all,” the other girl said, giving Harriet one of her vague smiles before making her way back to her temporary desk.

“Sorry about the delay,” Harriet said, facing the businessman with a bland expression on her face. “I’m afraid Dr. Dumbledore isn’t available at the moment. Would you like to come back some other time?”

He only narrowed his eyes at her, before pausing, as though taking her measure. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

 “Do you know who I am?” he asked, his smile not meant to be an expression of friendliness, or reassurance. She met his gaze with a flat look of her own, and a smile that she usually used when about elbow some asshole who didn’t understand that she and her friends weren’t interested in dancing with him. 

“Of course, Mr. Riddle,” she said, glad for the first time that she had worn heels that day. “But Dr. Dumbledore was very clear that he wasn’t to be disturbed during this meeting. If you would please follow me?” she said, taking a step in the direction of the lobby area.

“Nice try,” he said, looking momentarily amused. “No one would guess you had only just been pulled from the secretarial pool or wherever it is you normally work.”

“I would really hate to have to call security,” she said, making her eyes big and pulling an unconvincing look of concern, “but I suppose I _could_. It might even be exciting” she added, hiding her vindictiveness behind some fluttery lashes. He looked entirely unthreatened, and entirely undeceived by her half-hearted attempt at a Daphne Greengrass impression.

He took another step closer to her, and she was irritated to note that even with a two inch boost she still had to look up at him or risk backing away and looking weak. It might have been the smarter, more prudent, idea, but Harriet wasn’t known for being particularly prudent.

“Is that so?” he asked softly, looking momentarily very frightening. He was an executive in a suit, she reminded herself, a grown up Malfoy or Nott trying to bully those around them into submission. She did not reply but only met his gaze with as much icy coolness as she could muster.

“Well then,” he said, “I’ll be very sure to ask Albus about the conduct of his new, temporary staff and the personnel measures they’re instituted here, once he and I have a little chat, but in the meantime, won’t you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of tea?”

If she had her way, it would be poisoned.

“Of course,” she said, seething, “what kind do you take?” His smile was as thin as a blade.

“Black, no milk or sugar,” he replied, cocking his head slightly. Behind him, an unremarkable grey door opened silently and she raised her voice in response.  

“We have earl grey, Assam, Ceylon, Tetley’s, Twinings and….” She trailed off, prolonging the syllables and trying to bullshit her way into a longer list of black teas to cover the noise of the door to the stairwell, “Yorkshire, I think”. Mr. Dodge, Dumbledore’s attorney was sneaking past and somehow managed not to be noticed by either Riddle or the security guard, who appeared to be studying the odd, abstract design in the carpet with more care than was really merited.

“Twinings,” he said, evidently not interested in her little tea litany. He began to turn to face the hallway, evidently impatient to get past her, just as Dr. Dumbledore stepped into view, as though he had, apropos of nothing, decided to take a stroll down the hall, past the marketing offices, and opened the locked door for no particular reason.   

“Tom!” Dumbledore exclaimed, not visibly succeeding in startling Mr. Riddle, to her disappointment. He looked angry though, she thought, once she stepped back so she could watch them both, despite the ostensibly genial smile.

“I see you’ve met Ms. Potter?”

“Potter?” he asked, raising in eyebrow and eyeing her.

“Oh yes,” Dumbledore said, his blue eyes twinkling over his glasses. “I think your families might be acquainted.”

“You could say that, I suppose,” he said, looking amused for the first time as he turned to look back at her. His eyes racked over her body quickly, and though she didn’t sense any lecherous intent, she still glared at him. Oddly though, his mood seemed to have improved.

“Well, it was a pleasure Miss Potter,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon. And forget the tea.”

With that, he snapped the door to the right side of the office behind him, leaving her with the man from reception.

“Er, I’m going to go,” he said, tugging at his collar. Harriet nodded once.

“What the _fuck_ ,” she muttered when the door to the elevator closed. She frowned as she slumped at her desk.


	2. with teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First things get bad, and then they get worse   
> or  
> 6000 words of threats and sexual tension

There was a great deal of whispering for the remainder of that week, and an irritating lack of explaining. McGonagall told Harriet that she couldn’t know full extent of the situation because she was only an intern, and to please be reasonable about it?

Harriet liked Minerva McGonagall, but she wasn’t really in the mood to be reasonable when being mildly resentful was _so_ much more satisfying. Terrific as the Hogwarts Inc’s COO was, Harriet still wanted answers about a couple of the truly bizarre occurrences surrounding this supposed takeover attempt. For one thing, why did Dumbledore’s solicitor need to sneak out from behind the back of VMRT’s senior partner? What the hell had happened to Charity Burbage? And there were other things, too, that didn’t seem quite normal.

“You don’t exactly have much experience with Private Equity,” Hermione pointed out, when Harriet brought them up during their weekly phone call.

“Well, no,” Harriet admitted, “but this seems really strange, ‘Mione. I can’t imagine that it’s normal.”

“Or finance in general, really. You’ve never had any interest in banking, accounting, or anything that would get you a job in the City.”

“Oh please,” Harriet said, “you only know half of what you do because you pretended to care when you were dating Anthony Goldstein.” Anthony and his fellow future financiers, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Ernie Macmillan, were nice enough, but Harriet privately believed that anyone who as much time networking at one of the most prestigious schools in the world, while also coming from ridiculously well-connected families, as the President, Vice-President and Social Secretary of Oxford’s Finance Club did, had their priorities seriously out of order.

“I – listen, that’s not true,” Hermione began. “As you know,” she continued, injecting a little playfulness into her voice, “you have to know how a system works before you can dismantle it.”

“So was that what you were telling yourself whilst the two of you were holed up together in your room all of Hillary?” Harriet asked, innocently. “Because I’ve never heard it called _dismantling_ before, though I guess it sort of works,” she broke off, coughing and then dissolved into a funny kind of half snickering half coughing until Hermione reminded her to breathe.

By then, the topic was forgotten. But it still nagged at her.

***

She’d gotten an answer to one of her questions though. She had learned why he had recognized her name (notwithstanding her mother’s position as Shadow Education Secretary, most people didn’t make the connection; it wasn’t as though Potter was particularly exotic).

Tom Riddle Sr, Mr. Creepy and Intense’s beloved pater, had been involved in the buyout of Sleekeazy’s Ltd., which had happened only two years before she was born. The Potters had still received a decent amount of compensation, and her father was more than happy with his journalism career, but the loss of the family company had hit her grandparents hard, she knew. Even more so for the fact that the generous benefits that their workers enjoyed had all been stripped and the charitable arm shut down in the name of efficiency.

He’d turned the limited partnership he had inherited from his father from a cozy, fraternal office into one of the most profitable in the City, with the help of new investors who, she discovered, included Draco’s father, as well as her godfather’s awful, racist family. The slavish feature in the _Times_ hadn’t said much about him as a person, focusing more on his remarkable ability to turn around companies, but what little they did say was unremarkable. Rich, boring, moderately successful father, attended Oxford, early success, ect, ect. His mother was not mentioned at all, which she thought was a little odd. In fact, there was hardly any mention of his family, in fact, aside from the reference to his inheritance of his father’s firm upon his father’s death.

There were only two quotes from him in the entire piece, each the sort of bland, faux-modest statements that the British press and public preferred, but plenty of associates willing to describe his brilliance, his business acumen. One hinted about a possible future in politics. The thought was less than appealing. He’d be a Tory for sure, with that crowd, and the worst kind, too.

While her father had been brought up a Lib Dem and her mother was staunchly Labor, they both agreed fervently on the unacceptability of Bagnold’s government and happily ranted about it to each other, because they were still like that, after twenty-two years of marriage. She half-suspected her younger brother would develop a sudden passion for the Conservatives just to wind them up – David _was_ approaching that age. Resolving to bring it up the next time she spoke with him, Harriet put Tom Riddle from her mind, and hoped she wouldn’t have to deal with him again in the future. He was, she thought, almost comically rude.

However -

It didn’t stop her from getting herself off to the thought of him in that suit two days later. As she slid lower in her bathtub and scowled, she considered, privately, whether or not there was something wrong with her. This was nearly as bad as the fantasy about reforming Draco Malfoy she’d entertained briefly as a young and foolish first year. She thought about it for a moment.

  _No_ , she concluded, gloomily hitting the stopper. It was worse.

***

Three days after Harriet’s birthday, he came again. No. 

                                           That wasn’t quite accurate.

First, she arrived, relived to leave behind the increasingly smelly crowd and bustle of the underground for the now-familiar floors belonging to Hogwarts.

She made tea and double-checked someone else’s figures at her desk (her desk again – Dumbledore had found a new secretary, an extraordinarily severe woman named Ms. Vector. Harriet was half-convinced she was a Russian hit-woman.

Later, Luna wandered by and they had a brief conversation – she brought Harriet biscuits made like stars, which were clearly homemade and actually quite delicious. Harriet felt bad for every unkind thought she had ever had about Luna – whatever else she was the girl was really quite sweet.

Sometime after her second cup of tea, but before she was supposed to tag along to a meeting about the R&D department’s recent initiatives, she heard a commotion in one of the hallways, and confused, she made her way to a more open part of the office, where a few other people had begun to loiter. She looked around for some kind of explanation, but none of them seemed to know what was happening.

_Fine_ , Harriet thought, and she walked to the door that would take her to the elevator bank and reception. She opened it, but stopped halfway through, brought up short by surprise.

The hallway contained no fewer than four policemen, all wearing rather thick, bulky black vests, as though they expected to be shot.

And, she noticed with alarm, they were carrying _guns_.

“Stay where you are,” one of them said – as if Harriet wasn’t too busy looking about trying to make sense of everything to do anything else.

“I – yes, fine, but what’s going on?” she said, alarmed. “What’s happened,” she continued, gesturing to the bizarre spectacle – there were an additional two large, indistinct black shapes that she could see behind the frosted door leading to the executive suite. The door closed behind her with a snick she only half registered.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” barked one of the men, a pale, unfriendly looking man with the approximate build of solid garden shed.

She blinked. “Er, yes, of course.” Glancing down at herself – boxy shift dress, thin black cardigan – she wondered what on earth would prompt him to say that.

There was a chime at one of the elevators and as though the universe were set on worsening her incomprehension, even more large, armed men emerged. Harriet took a step back, nearly stumbling in her low heels.

“Don’t move,” boomed the same man as before, and she felt a rush of frustration, and irritation – what the absolute fuck where these people on? And why had they not announced what they were doing there, loitering in the lobby while looking menacing?

“I’m sorry, _please_ just tell me what is going on,” she continued. Her urgency seemed to prompt no reaction, but one of the men nearer to hear said, in a low, aggressive pitch

“The boss is under arrest.” She blinked twice and swiveled her head.

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Was he talking about Dumbledore? Arrested for what? And why would a veritable hoard of armed police men be needed to arrest a man pushing eighty? Something was terribly wrong – terribly misunderstood.

A door to her right opened and she turned in astonishment to watch a stream of her officemates march to the door leading to one of the four (emergency only) staircases, herded on by yet more heavily armed and unfriendly men in police uniform.

“What the hell,” she whispered, turning back to try and make sense of it all. Out of the corner of her eye she could swear she saw –

            but then, as she made to take a step to the others, last of them trailing down the stairs, looking back at her with a disturbing passivity, someone approached her and instinctively, she brought her hands up and they were seized. She met the eyes of a thuggish looking sort of man and she thought he smiled, with a small cruel twitch of the lips.

“Let go of me!” she exclaimed, truly afraid, and this was all utterly mad, like something out a bad spy film, but the officer’s hand only tightened on her wrists and she dug her heels into the bland, industrial carpet and leaned back the other way, ready to fight him, instinctively worried and then –

“She’s an intern, let her go,” said Tom Riddle, resplendent in a bespoke black suit with a slim, silver tie. He looked tired, but somehow handsomer than ever in that half-exhausted triumph. His hair was a little longer than when she had last seen him.

She started at the sight of him, but without a word, the uniformed man dropped her wrists and walked off in the other direction a few paces.

“Hello, Harriet,” he said. He bit off the end of her name in a funny sort of way – soft, but like he was catching the end of it between his teeth.

She stared at him for a moment and then swung her head back to face Riddle, who had taken a few steps closer and was now reaching out a hand to her. Wide-eyed, she stared at him, her heart only beginning to slow.

“Come on,” he said, smiling graciously, “you don’t want someone else mistaking you for a criminal, do you?”

She took the offered hand, bewildered, and he maneuvered her to the blasted faux-leather couch in the lobby with the grace and old-school sophistication of her spritely-great-uncle Charlus. She tried to make sense of his presence – except that in a terrible way, it already did make sense. Tom Riddle had something to do with this, she was sure, but she could not say so without sounding utterly mad. He indicated she should sit, and so she did, still angry and bewildered. He, however, remained standing in front of her, half an inch too close for comfort. She disliked having to look up at him.

But he was not looking down at her, but over to Dumbledore’s office, where the great man himself was being escorted out by two intimidatingly large men in the ridiculous gear that the police had come over in. God, _they_ couldn’t be in Riddle’s pockets too, could they?

She watched Tom Riddle’s face, and something in her twisted as she saw the bright, animalistic smile that transformed him, made him look more savage than she had imagined a man in a tailored suit could be. He turned to watch Dumbledore being taken down the elevator, and Dumbledore looked at Riddle in turn, looking saddened, almost disappointed, even. And then he met her eyes, from where she was leaning over the arm of the couch, probably as confused and upset as she felt.

And then, as he was pushed into the elevator, he looked suddenly alarmed. A chill ran down her spine.

Tom Riddle turned around and took in her changed position, his dark eyes blinking down at her for a moment.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose we had better let the police do their work. I’ll see to it that you get a cab home.”

“I’m sorry?” she said, still bewildered. His smile was slightly condescending.

“We’ll both need to leave – all the employees will. We had better let the police do their work.”

_Your_ _work_ , Harriet wanted to say, but did not.

She still felt confused - wasn’t there something that she could have done? Should have done?

“I,” she began, and cleared her throat, “I think I need my purse – it’s on my desk.” And I need to call my parents, she thought.

“Wait here,” he told her, striding off, and then he came back with another uniformed constable a moment later, looking apologetic.

“I’m afraid that they’ve taken it for evidence,” he told her, “but they’re going to try and photograph and catalogue everything and get it back to you as quickly as they can.” He checked his watch and looked at her with an air of consideration. Decision made, he said

“In the meantime, why don’t we go across the street and you can join me for lunch?”

Never had such an ordinary sentence sounded so strange coming out of someone’s mouth. She was only silent for a moment, but the policeman clearly took it as a yes and walked away, muttering something about talking to his boss.

“But how will they know to reach me?” she asked.

“They have my number,” he said, indicating his briefcase she hadn’t realized he carried. Oh right, she thought, he had a mobile phone. He seemed the type that would.

As he steered to towards the elevator she wondered if she should comment on the absurdity that the London police should have a business man’s private number, or that they would be willing to keep him informed about an investigation that he shouldn’t have had anything to do with. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

He was watching her, lazy and triumphant as a lion after a kill. He smiled a little when their eyes met and she turned back to stare at the shiny doors. It was silly, but she wouldn’t say anything, at least, not then. Stupid, but it didn’t seem safe in the small metal box.  

They were both silent as he led her to a nearby restaurant, one of those ridiculous places that only seemed to cater to those with company expense accounts, and featured steak and lobster a little too prominently on their menus to be considered in good taste. 

They were seated with efficiency and she felt the ghost of his hand as he motioned her forward, indicating she should follow the maître d'. She wondered if it was a coincidence that the man himself suddenly materialized right as Tom Riddle had entered the establishment.  

She took the chair that was proffered and found that in the quiet corner they had been offered (it was really too early, she thought, for the usual rush) she had no clear view of the rest of the restaurant – nothing but her dining companion and a bland, inoffensive abstract painting in her immediate line of sight. 

_How old was he?_ she wondered, because suddenly, sitting across from him, she realized that while he had the self-assurance of someone who was definitely far enough out from the trials of his teenage years, his face was unlined. The waitress, a young woman who couldn’t have been that much older than Harriet herself, was flirting with him, and Harriet didn’t think she was only doing do in the hope of a generous tip. Thirty-something, she guessed. But was he a young, thirty-something?

In the face of the waitress’ charm offensive, he smiled back, politely, and ordered them waters and martinis. This struck Harriet as faintly improbable – did men really do that anymore? It was 1992 for God’s sake. As if he sensed what she was thinking, he raised an eyebrow at her and said only -

“You look like you could use a stiff drink,” with a small shrug.

Well. She couldn’t honestly argue with that. 

“Are you going to order my food as well?” she asked. He laughed.

“No. Well, not unless you keep me waiting for too long – I’m famished.” With that, he reached over the table and flipped open her gilt-edged menu, the kind of thing that had become popular again.

“The seafood here is excellent,” he told her, turning to his own menu.

Somehow, she managed to order when the waiter came back, following his direction, and looking at him incredulously as he began buttering a piece of bread, as though he hadn’t just seized Albus Dumbledore’s company out from under him, as he weren’t about to lay off workers and strip down the company to sell it for piecemeal.

“So,” he asked her, the picture of nonchalance, “are you still in school?” She nodded, reaching for her martini and taking a sip. It was much bitterer than anything she’d normally drink, but she could drink with a straight face and so she did.

“I’ll be a finalist this year,” she said, “I study English.” He nodded, polite.

“And where are you at?”

“Wadham College, at Oxford,” she said. He raised an eyebrow and smirked, just a little.

“I was at Christchurch.” Of course he was.

“Of course,” she muttered. His smile was as genuine as she imagined he was capable of producing.

“I was President of the Union, too,” he added, nonchalantly. She snorted into her martini, looking up at him again.

“I wouldn’t want you to have an incomplete picture of me,” he said, shooting her an ironic look.

“Of course not,” she said. “Any hobbies I should know about? Shooting out of Range Rovers on the weekends at Tarquin’s Scottish estate with some of the old boys? Enabling Alistair’s cocaine habit? Kicking puppies?”

His lips thinned, but his eyes remained amused.

“None of the above, I’m afraid. And you, Harriet? I assume you’re busy enough with the protests and the vegetarianism and so on.”

She snorted again, and ordered a salad with chicken when the waitress returned.

“I play football, actually.”

“For your college?”

“For the Blues,” she said. He merely raised an eyebrow in response.

“And have you any plans for later this summer? Going down to the sea or something with any of your friends?”

She just stared at him for a moment, gathering herself. _Yes_ , she thought.

“Why did you get Dumbledore arrested?” she asked instead, and it was more of an accusation than anything else. He rolled his eyes and took a sip of his martini.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harriet, he was committing securities fraud and embezzling from that charity of his.”

“We both know that isn’t true,” she snapped.

“Do you _really_?” he asked, leaning forward. “Because I can’t imagine you really know Albus Dumbledore all that well – he’s been alive a full half century longer than you have, so I’d recommend that you dig a little deeper before you sanctify the man.” His eyes, she noted, as he leaned in, were a curious blue-grey. She couldn’t think why she had imagined they were dark, before.

“He built a company that makes toys for children, another that makes medical devices, and runs charities that try to improve their quality of life. And I don’t think anyone I’ve ever met – aside from you – dislikes him,” she snapped back. “So forgive me if I don’t quite take your word for it. And your own reputation isn’t exactly sterling, don’t you think?” she added, as an afterthought, another challenge.

“Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, and spite spawns lies” Riddle replied, narrowing his eyes at her.

She noted, to her disgust, that he didn’t even seem defensive when he said it.

“Nice,” she bit out instead. “How long did it take you to come up with that, Mr. Riddle?”

“Goodness,” he said, voice dry. “Aren’t we formal, _Miss_ _Potter_? Ill-manners aside, of course. Call me Tom, if you like. Since you presume to know so much about me you ought to know I’m not so terribly old as that.”

She sat back in her chair, stone-faced.

This, for some reason, he seemed to find amusing.

_Tom_ fingered the stem of his glass lazily, smiling at her like a tiger contemplating some particularly small, amusing mammal not quite worth eating. She looked away. She could just leave, she thought. She could walk home if she had to – she had all afternoon.

Decision made, a hand on the table she made to stand up and leave and his smile dropped.

“Sit down,” he said, voice low. She paused. Gave him an incredulous look.

“I’m sorry?”

“This restaurant is popular with Cuffe’s crowd,” he said, naming the Editor of _The_ _Daily Prophet_. “I don’t think it would reflect very well if Lily Evans’ daughter were seen dashing out of a restaurant without paying.” Harriet half-felt her face twist, too enraged to consider what her expression must have looked like

“Are you threatening me?” she demanded. His eyes glittered.

“Yes. I could have just left you there, you know,” he said, with the slightest of nods in the approximate direction of Hogwarts’ building. “Since you seem so determined to dislike me, I don’t really feel like indulging your little tantrum.”

“You’re _mad_ ,” she hissed, leaning half across the table, one hand still braced on its edge.

“Quite the opposite,” he said, coolly. “Now sit back and smile, dear. We’re being watched.”

_Go fuck yourself_ , she wanted to say. Harriet was not easily intimidated and Tom Riddle was strongly mistaken if he thought that her mother gave more of a damn about what was printed about her in Cuffe’s rag than some man trying to bully her daughter. But.

But she was not ignorant to how stupid any explanation would sound – oh, the young, handsome man in the suit took me out for lunch while the police had my bag, and he was so mean, and he threatened me. People would _more_ than look at her in askance.

And there was something else too – she couldn’t deny that there was something about him that indicated that not only was he not bluffing, but he might be even more terrible if pushed. She _was_ afraid of him, she realized, if not intimidated into easy compliance. It was not a comfortable revelation.

“Well then,” he said, soft as a snake. “Are we going to be friends, Harriet?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and offered him a smile to match his own, as she leaned back into her chair, the very fucking _picture_ of nonchalance.

“Oh, call me Harry,” she said, quietly. It was an old nickname she hadn’t used in years and years, but he would have no way of knowing that. There was no point in seething – no point in giving him the satisfaction. She would bank her anger for the time being and let it burn again once she was home. She could do that.

He watched her carefully for a moment, and then smiled again, half stopping her heart. It was a false thing, she was sure, but it was _beautiful_. He was absurdly handsome, and she could see why so many people found him charming.

“Well then,” he said, again, “why don’t you tell me a little more about how your summer has been?” Harriet hummed.

“Oh, well, very boring really,” she said, cocking her head slightly. They hadn’t broken eye contact in minutes, she realized.

“Oh, I can’t imagine that’s the case,” he replied, lightly. As if to say, _go on_.

“Really,” she demurred. “What have you been doing? I’m sure it’s far more interesting than anything I’ve been doing.”  He clearly knew what she was up to but wasn’t bothered by it.

“Oh, this and that,” he said.

“Business things, I suppose” she prodded. Still amused, he gave a little shrug.

“What would you like to know?”

She took a little breath, but paused as their meals were served. The waitress shot her a searching look as she walked away, flushing when Harriet met her eyes. She wondered what they looked like to those around them, turning a little in her seat to glance at them. Most seemed absorbed in their own conversations and meals, and most were the sort of bland-looking middle-aged bankers and solicitors that seemed almost anonymous when you passed them in the streets – dressed in grey or black and not quite real. Most, she noticed, were men.

“She’s jealous,” Tom Riddle said, one corner of his mouth curling up. Harriet glanced at him, shifting slightly.  

“I probably come her once or twice a week, but my companions aren’t normally young or pretty,” he paused, just a hint of humor breaking up the dry, unconcerned tone that he seemed to default to, “quite the opposite really.”

She had no idea how to respond to that. Except some small and stupid part of her lingered on the word _pretty_. She was, she knew. She just hadn’t expected him to notice, or care. In spite of herself, she felt the slightest bit of warmth in her cheeks. He would notice, of course. But if she didn’t pretend to herself that he wouldn’t then she would only flush more.

“How do you know him, anyway,” she asked instead, seizing wildly on something that had been bothering her. “Dumbledore, I mean. I can’t imagine that the first time you met him was the other day in his office, and you seem to have,” she paused, “strong opinions about him.”

“Mmm, yes, that’s certainly one way of putting it,” Tom replied, cocking an eyebrow. With quick, deliberate movements he placed down his fork, lunch still untouched in front of him.

“Albus Dumbledore,” he said, “is one of the most extraordinarily irritating individuals I’ve had the misfortune to encounter in my professional life.”

Harriet worked to hide her astonishment that he would actually answer her question with any degree of honesty.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Tom said. “If there’s one thing I really despise, its false piety. Or hypocrisy, call it what you like, but I really can’t stand people who look down their crooked noses at others while trumpeting their own superiority if their image is every bit as false as those they pretend to be above.”

Yes, that was understandable, but Dumbledore? Tom was right, and Harriet didn’t really know him properly, but she had never gotten the impression that he thought too highly of himself or looked down upon others. And though their interactions were filtered through the medium of her parents, she still would have never thought to call him a hypocrite.

She supposed she had been silent a moment too long, because he leaned in again.

“Have I surprised you, Harriet?” There was something curious about his voice – something she couldn’t quite parse.

 “A little,” she replied. “What do you mean, though, about the hypocrisy? What was – or, I mean, what do you think he was doing?”

As Harriet corrected herself she noticed that their faces were closer than she had realized; she, too, had leaned in. Her gaze flickered to his mouth, which seemed not to quite match the rest of his face, with its classic, matinee-idol features. It was a little thin, a little cruel. It was curving up crookedly, just then, in satisfaction.

_He wants me to believe him_ , she thought. And then, _why?_

“Do you know what the major disadvantage of a public listing is?” he asked her. She frowned at the apparent non sequitur.

“Additional regulation?” she guessed.

“Not quite – or rather, not entirely. The regulation isn’t overly burdensome in and of itself, but the scrutiny, and all the mandatory quarterly reports, with detailed financial statements, has tripped up many a firm that thought the additional capital was worth the new rules”

“Hogwarts is private though,” she prodded. He smiled.

“Phoenix isn’t.” Harriet looked at him in surprise.

“But I thought – he doesn’t run it anymore – they have their own CEO, and everything.”

“Yes, but Dumbledore still sits on the board. And unfortunately, founders often struggle to stop meddling in companies they no longer run, and no longer own.”

She waited for him to go on.

“Some months ago now it came to light that Phoenix wasn’t operating like a public company, but like a public charity,” Tom said, taking a sip of his drink and appearing to savor it. “Sinking money into unprofitable and pointless research, and donating extravagantly. It was clear something needed to be done, so the Board voted to replace the executive team with people who weren’t entirely beholden to Dumbledore. And he didn’t like that.”

“Wait, what?” she asked, looking at him in disbelief. “All this because some rich people wanted, what, more dividends or something?”

“Higher,” Tom corrected. “And why should all these cozy, inefficient businesses get to keep on wasting shareholder money?” he asked, leaning back into his seat, smiling at her. “Managers should be maximizing shareholder value, keeping their businesses efficient, looking for profitable ventures - not taking advantage of their investment for their own purposes.”

“I’m sorry, are you actually attempting to defend what you do as ‘efficient’?” Harriet asked, incredulous. “Because unless you mean efficient in the sense that strip-mining’s efficient, that’s one of the most absurd things I’ve ever heard.” She was thinking, then, of all the workers at Sleekeasy’s swindled out of their pensions, the layoffs, her grandparents, their smiles fading as she looked up at them as a very small child.

Tom have a sharp little exhale, and lowered his gaze. His smile became unpleasant.

“Aren’t you a little old,” he said, “to still think that the world is fair, in any sense of the word?”

“Aren’t you a little old,” she retorted, “to be making the kind of grand sweeping statements? You implied earlier you didn’t like manifestos.”

A gleam of his eyes, and then they quieted, by mutual, unspoken agreement as a waiter filled their glasses with water.

“I could care less about what some idealistic half-wit dreams up in their little garret,” Tom said, his chin raising a fraction of an inch, his eyes becoming heavy and intense. “But I find I do mind when they make it my problem or interfere with my life.”

“Interfere?” Harriet echoed. “What the – you know what, I really don’t care.” And damn it all if that didn’t seem to be the thing to make him half-snarl for a moment before resembling his polite mask. Her mind was racing – her pulse was too.

She cut him off when he opened his mouth, eager to pick at the little crack in his façade.

“And that bothers you, doesn’t it? You don’t know me from Eve but the thought that someone might not give a shit about whatever it is that you want, or don’t-“

“Tread carefully, Harry,” he breathed. “If ever there was a time to learn caution…”

“Oh, no one’s ever accused me of that before,” she said, trying to dissect him.

“No one’s ever accused you of viciousness before either, have they?” Tom said, narrowing his eyes – he wanted to turn the conversation back on her, she was sure of it.

Harriet rolled her eyes.

“Just because –”

“You saw a perceived weakness, and you dove for it. I rather suspect you’re not all that nice, Harry,” Tom said.

“A little rich, coming from you,” she said, almost amused, before she remembered to be angry.

“Oh, silly girl, I never said that it bothered me,” he continued. She blinked then, and briefly looked away, breaking their minutes-long staring contest. When she glanced back at his he appeared smug, pleased to have unnerved her.

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t. I can’t imagine you know what empathy looks like. Tell me, do you even think twice before ruining people’s livelihoods, or it is the sort of thing that just comes naturally to you?” Harriet said, hoping against hope to change the subject.  

“Oh _please_ don’t act as though you’re some sort of put-upon waif fighting the bourgeoisie. Your mother’s an MP and unless Winchester’s a home for the disadvantaged, I don’t think your father’s family was exactly hurting for money either. You’re just as privileged as everyone you pretend to despise, and twice as hypocritical.”

He looked, more than ever, incredibly haughty and incredibly sure.

“I’m sorry,” Harriet said, after a beat, “I think you may have me mistaken with someone else – I mean – despise? And unless disagreeing at all with your whole ‘stakeholder maximization rant’ was what you define as ‘fighting’, I think you were more than a little off base to begin with-”

He was clearly preparing to say something cutting, so in a rush, she continued.

“Because unless I am _very_ much mistaken, that wasn’t about me at all.” Harriet paused, a thought, an explanation, finally occurring to her. “Did some poor little rich girl give you the brush off back at school? Is that what this is about?”

She pulled back in her seat, half convinced of her own theory.

“Is that what you think?” Tom asked with dangerous quietness. “And here I had thought you might be clever.”  He studied her, eyes glittering – but Harriet had struck close to the heart of something, and she knew it. Her mind raced – trying to think back to the profile in the _Times_ , trying to think back to any little detail – because he was touchy, she had made him angry, and there was a kind of power in that.

Her satisfaction was short lived; his smile, when it came, was perhaps more alarming than his earlier mood.

“Do you know, Harry – I think I may yet tell you what you’re so clumsily grasping at. But I can promise you,” and here he leaned in, all angles and intensity, the swoop of dark hair, the cruel mouth, the bright eyes, almost supernaturally clear and penetrating, a man, a monolith –

“You’re not going to like it.”

                                              A monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then they banged, probably. 
> 
> It’s hard for me to picture Tom Riddle the muggle as anything but a James Bond villain-type so he probably tries to take over the government at some point, his numerous financial misdeeds are uncovered by a some plucky young people who just so happen to be friends of Harriet’s and then there is probably more inappropriate hate-sex before the good people of Dumbledore’s Army defeat the Death Eaters aka the board members of VMRT and no doubt an embarrassingly large number of politicians are swept up in the ensuing corruption scandals. Lily Evans becomes Prime Minister (Kingsley who?) and everyone lives happily ever after, except Harriet, because sexing up an evil terrorist who she’s forced to kill? Would necessitate a lot of therapy. 
> 
> This is why I really shouldn’t be dicking around with modern AUs but in my defense, these were all just supposed to be fun writing exercises that got out of hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I hate the name Harriet, but I know four well-off English girls with that name, so -


End file.
